


Worth

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Gin-Gin wails and wails on how unfair it all is. She wants to come with you. She wants to follow after you and little Gin-Gin, apple of her mother's eye, is unused to being told no. 

"Don't be thick," you grumble, but inwardly, you are glad. You are so bloody glad to be free of her, of the Burrow, of everyone and everything, "You're only ten, Gin. You can't go Hogwarts yet. You're too little to go and I won't have you trailing after me like mum's cast a a sticking charm between the two of us. So, suck it up and stop wailing."

She lifts her chin, glares up at you with watery eyes, "You great big meanie, I won't miss you not even a little bit, not even at all."

Then, she storms forward, toddling forward like the bratty half-pint you know she is. 

She doesn't stop her wailing, but you figure once it stops being anger and starts being real tears, then the twins will take over.

The twins can't stand to see her cry.

You, on the other hand, can deal with it. 

You are eleven years old and the world is so big. Its a place of testing rules, trying those lemon cakes they serve at feasts, and having a fun time without your mum and your sister making your life difficult. You are ready to not be "Ron and Ginny" or "Ginny and Ron" or "Ickle Ronniekins and Gin-Gin." 

You are completely ready for Hogwarts and one of your favorite parts is that you are no longer part of a matched set, though you will always continue to be one of a matched set. Red-headed Weasleys are uncommon in Gryffindor after all. 

As you race forward, a hand pulls you back and you don't even try to muffle your groan as big, warm hands start combing through your hair like you haven't just escaped from them twice before on today of all days. 

Mum looks at you, all naked panic and protective worry that it makes you torn between love and anger. Its an ugly low green thing in your stomach, but you know its not hunger that at the time you can't give it a name. 'Now, you care?'

You are eleven years old and the world is so very big. You've got dirt on your nose, a rat in your pocket, poor old shoes, and a mum with grip on you so tight that her knuckles are almost white. "Gerr off!" You tell her, try to tell your brothers, try to tell them all. 'Get off,' you mean to say. 'Get off and let me go.' 

"Don't forget your bags, dear," she says, fussily as she ignores your grumbles and attempts to fend off the comb in hands, "Oh, Ronald!" She puts her hands on your shoulders, as you try to stand tall and adult-like because you're not a kid anymore. C'mon. You are eleven years old, for crying out loud. You're not a baby like Gin-Gin. She looks you over, misty-eyed, and you wonder if she'll start to cry and uncomfortably look around for Dad, which is nowhere to be found, the traitor! "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Mum," you say, low and serious. "I'm ready."

You're not ready though, not even a little bit, not even at all. 

That's okay though. 

The world isn't ready for Harry either.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

You are not the chosen one. 

That's not what you say though, but its what you mean. 

You try to warn him.

Its is a pattern in your life that you are used too.

When Mum makes desert, she always lets Gin-Gin lick the spoon even though you're the one with flour in your hair. 

When you and Diggory are up for playing 'Knights and Dragons,' little Greengrass always, always chooses him as her knight and you're stuck as a Dragon. You get bruised arms and a sore bum. The cheeky tosser gets a kiss, which he always assures you is not even a good thing. You're no sure if you believe him, though on account of the affect he's got this quiet smile that makes you want to punch him. 

In Quidditch mock-matches, the twins would rather choose Gin-Gin over you and she's not even allowed to let her skinny arms even brush up against a broom, much less hold one. 

So, yeah. 

You figure pretty early on in life that you will always be life's last choice. 

You're not happy about it, but its a fact of life. 

But Harry Potter looks at you with awe in his wide-green eyes and asks about you.

He doesn't mind questions, though he kind of does so you learn how to stop.

He doesn't mind your second hand robes, the dirt on your nose, the rat in your pocket, or the way you've got absolutely nothing to give him but the words on your tongue and your earnest desire to make a friend to call your own. 

He doesn't mind that you have siblings that are more than anything you can ever hope to be. 

So, when Malfoy points all this out, you are filled with fear, anger, and deep shame. 

You've just made a friend and you will loose him because you don't know how to keep him. 

You grind your teeth, raise your chin, and finger your wand. You will loose to him, but you figure that you won't go down without a fight. Next time, you think to yourself, next time, I'll choose someone that's not Harry bloody Potter. Merlin, what were you thinking?

Then, a voice as clear as day and sharp as cut glass says, "I think I can figure out the wrong sort for myself."

Malfoy rears back as if slapped and your whole world just stops. 

He cuts a glance at you, disbelieving and easy to read. 

_He chose you over me._

You are grinning so hard that you are sure you're face will split in two, cause, yeah. 

Yeah, Malfoy. 

Harry chose Ron.  

Afterwards, Harry is turning over the magical card in his hand, utterly fascinated and your throat is tight with all these soddin' girly emotions you don't know how to deal with. 

You don't look him, but you clear your throat purposefully.

You immediately regret it, cause it makes you sound as prattish as Percy. 

But you've got to say it. 

You've just gotta.

He's staring at you.

Good.

Carefully, not looking at the boy-who-chose-you, you mutter a low, quiet, "Thanks."

You can sense the puzzlement in the air, can see out of the corner of your eye the easy shrug of his shoulders, "Its just a chocolate frog. Didn't know you liked them so much."

You turn at that, exasperated beyond belief, "You're sort of a clueless bloke, aren't you?"

He smiles at you, a cheeky glint in his eye that remind you of the twins, and a part of you is wailing at all the bad decisions you'll make because of this guy, "Well, I have you to fill me in on what I miss." Then, he asks, low and uncertain, "Don't I?"

You snort, snort so hard you almost choke on the leftover chocolate in your mouth. Is this guy for real? "Yeah, mate," you say to those worried green eyes, "I'm not a prodigy like Bill, fearless like Charlie, smart like Percy, or as funny as the twins, but I reckon I'm loyal enough, so I've got that going for me. So, I reckon that you're pretty much stuck with me. "

He leans back, relieved. Then, he's beaming at you like you just told him you're filthy rich and drowning in galleons. You carefully look down at yourself, but nope, you're still just Ron. "Well, I'm not fearless or brave, really."

You cock on eyebrow, despite yourself. 

"I'm not," he insists, eagerly leaning forward, "I'm just Harry really and I guess my greatest accomplishment that people write about is not dying, so I'm good at that." He looks at you, flustered as you stop to look at him in horrified fascination, "Not the writing bit, but the not dying bit." He takes a clear deep breathe, then meets your eyes, the same steel in those green eyes as when he told Malfoy to piss off, "So, I reckon you're stuck with me too."

There is an awkward pause or two. 

Then, you say, voice mild, "Well, just Harry, pass me that big of chips and I'll tell you 'bout the Chuddly Cannons, the greatest Quidditch team in Great Britain."

He smiles, visibly relieved, "Deal, but..."

He wavers, tossing the bag at you, "But are you sure their the best? Someone else mentioned Pettlemores?"

He trailed of uncertainly in the face of your affront.

You launch straight in lecture mode, pausing to tear into the bag with your teeth.

Poor bloke does need you, you think, as you munch, crunch, and gesture wildly. 

After all, he's just so clueless. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
